“I don’t know how to explain it.” “Try words. If that doesn’t work, we’ll move on to interpretive dance.”

“You’re a good kid. If you’d work on your pain-in-the-ass tendencies, you’d be real nice.” “Too bad that isn’t going to happen anytime soon,” he muttered. “Real nice doesn’t get you very far.” “Real nice can keep you from getting beat up,” I said. He smiled. “Right. Maybe we should both work on it, then.”

“He'd been working for my father and following me around for I didn't know how long. He probably knew a lot of things about me. Probably even knew what kind of underwear I wore. Which begged the question. Was he a boxer or brief kind of guy?”

“I don’t know what’s happened to you. You used to be such a nice girl. Now you’ve gone all stabby and whatnot.”

“I think you’re possessed.” “Old news.” “Huh. Anyone I know?” “My dad. It’s a family issue I’m working on.”

“But it is clear to me that our survival—both yours and mine—will be dictated by how well you and I can work together.” “So we’re screwed?”

“It’s not a damn death wish. I just know how much my pain is worth.”